


The Livid Skies of London

by blessedjessed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Slash, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedjessed/pseuds/blessedjessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have been doing this all summer; spending long, languid nights together under John’s open window.  It only ever happens in the evenings, only ever in the twilight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the marvellous [MirabileLectu](http://mirabilelectu.tumblr.com/) , as it was written mostly with the aim of cheering her up.
> 
> The fic title is borrowed from G.K. Chesterton, and it is unbeta'd, so please do let me know of any mistakes!
> 
> Now with a chinese translation thanks to the lovely [shanzhu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shanzhu/pseuds/shanzhu)

A breeze beginning to grow sharp, blowing the scent of hot stone and cut grass and the ever-present rumble of traffic; a London summer evening creeps through the open window, and Sherlock Holmes lies on his back on John Watson’s bed, eyes half closed and mouth open as the good doctor kisses the soft skin beneath his jaw and unbuttons his shirt. John is gentle and unhurried; they have all night, after all. 

Nights like this are the closest Sherlock gets to peace. With the window open and John’s weight pressing on his hips he can catalogue his sensations and escape, for once, out of the turning, coruscating knot of his restless mind, and drift into his body. Sherlock inhales (static in the air – there is thunder on the way; the smell of egg white and sugar, heating - Mrs Hudson is making meringues; John is beginning to sweat and it must be excitement rather than heat as the night is turning cold and yet his fingers over Sherlock’s chest are hot and if Sherlock was to run his hand down John’s back it would come away damp), and there is a catch in his breath as he breathes out – John has placed a dry-lipped kiss in the hollow of his throat. He lifts one hand (and it is difficult – his body is relaxing into the bed, each limb heavy) and threads it through John’s hair. John does not stop, but he makes a noise, deep and low, too quiet to be heard but Sherlock can feel it through his lips and it sends a shiver across his skin (already sensitive, his bared chest goose-pimpled from the cooling evening air; the skin of his thighs acutely aware of the seam of John’s jeans pressing through the fabric of his trousers and the friction they generate each time one of them shifts, friction amplified by the swellings at both of their groins). 

John and Sherlock have been doing this all summer; spending long, languid nights together under John’s open window. It only ever happens in the evenings, only ever in the twilight. Sherlock wonders briefly if the timing has any significance for John; the evening has traditionally been a between-time, a liminal period where things are undefined and not all they seem. And maybe that’s what this is. Sherlock doesn’t have a name for it – these things are not his area, after all – but perhaps there isn’t one. Lovers? No. Boyfriends? Certainly not. They are just John and Sherlock and the city and it is a rare hot summer night edged with thunder, and Sherlock is beginning to slip away. John has now kissed his way down Sherlock’s abdomen and his teeth are nibbling at his navel as his hands carefully, slowly undo the buckle of Sherlock’s belt and the buttons on his trousers. As his hands delicately divest him of his boxers, Sherlock can feel connections and inferences shattering in his head, leaving him with a catalogue of sheer sensation (pulse elevated, breathing shallow, skin slick with sweat and flushing – ah). John’s mouth is around him now, one hand moving in slow lazy circles on his thigh, the other wrapped around the base of his cock and moving just as gently, just as slowly. Every twitch of John’s hand is electric and every swirl of his tongue traces fire; Sherlock is so sensitive now he is sure he can feel every crease of John’s lips and every ridge on his fingers; it seems every nerve is singing with arousal and if he doesn’t move now, he will die. 

“John,” he croaks, his voice hoarser and breathier than he intended. He looks up, and there is a sly half-smile on his lips and approaching lightning reflecting in his eyes, so Sherlock pulls him up and kisses him, his lips forceful, his fingers cupping John’s chin. It is a strange sensation, Sherlock thinks with the small part of himself still capable of thinking, strange to feel his animal instincts can override that great mind of his. After all, hasn’t he trained himself to be rational, to ignore the sentiment and sensuality of almost everyone else? And yet here he is, tongue tracing the palate of John Watson’s mouth because it is what he must do, right now. He shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t need this in the way he does, but the small dissenting part of him is getting weaker and fainter, like a radio tuned slightly off-signal, and the majority of Sherlock’s mind is thinking that although the sensation of John’s t-shirt against his bare chest is delicious, the fact that John is still fully dressed is unacceptable and that fact needs to be altered right away.

Sherlock almost rips John’s shirt from his body, pulling the damp cotton over John’s head, and if he had any space in his mind to reflect, he would note how odd it was that once his mind shut down, his body came alive. A quick bit of teamwork has John’s jeans and boxers on the floor, and then John is on top of him again, kissing his neck only this time it’s hard and possessive and as John bites down on his shoulder Sherlock moans. 

“John,” he stutters, and it’s all he seems capable of saying. The storm outside has broken and the rain spatters against the window pane, bouncing in through the opening, and Sherlock aches with a need he can barely vocalise because the city and John have overwhelmed his senses and the pleasure singing through his body like a violin solo has stolen his words.

“Now, Sherlock?” asks John, breath hot against his ear.

“Please,” he gasps, gripping John’s shoulder, and something in his voice makes the doctor pull away, looking down at him with concern. 

“Easy, Sherlock,” says John, after a minute. “This is supposed to be relaxing, remember?”

“John, please,” he replies, and he means the tone to be frustrated and irritable but even he can hear the desperation in it.

Whatever John hears, it’s enough, as he bends his head to Sherlock’s and places a kiss on his cheek, just beneath the right eye, and as he pulls away towards the bedside table, Sherlock can feel the kissed skin burn. John is out of contact with him for only a few seconds, but those few seconds stretch to an eternity, and the hammering of Sherlock’s heart sounds louder than the thunder. And then John is back, and Sherlock tilts up his hips, arms reaching out to John, wanting to pull him close, pull him inside. But John is moving slowly, and fingers slick with lube are running the length of Sherlock’s perineum, before flicking across his quivering hole. Every twitch of John’s fingers gets and answering twitch from Sherlock, and then suddenly John’s fingers are taken away. The whine of protestation has barely left Sherlock’s throat before he hears the sounds of a condom being applied, and now Sherlock is arching his back in anticipation and then John is inside of him. 

“Is that all right?” asks John, and Sherlock can’t find the words to tell him just how all right it is, so he nods, and John begins to thrust. His rhythm is slow and firm, pushing all the way into Sherlock again and again. Somewhere in Sherlock’s wracked mind he is glad of the slowness, of the gentleness, because even though his ecstasy is at such a pitch it’s almost agony, this beautiful, wonderful moment is being prolonged. He can smell John’s cologne, taste the sweat slicked on his skin, hear his breathy moans and where his fingers dig into John’s back he can feel the knots in the muscles of his wounded shoulder, the way John cradles his head and traces the outline of his ear, soft and sweet as though Sherlock is something precious; Sherlock wants to feel everything, experience and index each point of data about John, build a world from them and stay in it. He can hear his own voice pleading, and in response John takes Sherlock’s cock in his hand, stroking it swiftly, pumping his hand up and down the shaft. The burst of pleasure is intense, and while Sherlock’s back arches and a cry bursts from his lips he wonders how to tell John that what he really wants is this moment, drawn out forever, when there is nothing but the open window and the bedsheets and them.

As thunder echoes around Baker Street, Sherlock comes.

It takes a minute or two for Sherlock’s mind to come back to him, but when it does, John is handing him a wet cloth to wipe himself down with. There is a puddle beneath the window, and John is grumbling as he negotiates closing the window without getting his feet wet. Sherlock flops onto his side of the bed (closest the door, as he never stays the night – he waits until John has fallen asleep, and then leaves. It’s easier that way – their activities do not infringe on their daytime lives) and lies back, his mind still pleasantly fuzzy from all the endorphins. John eventually gets the window shut, and pads back to the bed, settling himself close to Sherlock, but not touching him. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, John lifts himself on his elbow and looks straight at Sherlock, his face soft and expression unfamiliar in the lamplight. Sherlock frowns, but John runs one tender finger down the lines of his cheekbone before sagging back and turning off the bedside lamp. John’s breathing deepens, and he is asleep in less than six minutes (quicker than average) and all is silent but the rain. However, behind his closed eyes Sherlock’s mind is racing again, adding together all the slight details, hurtling towards the inevitable conclusion (the delicate way John held him, the look in his eyes, the exquisitely gentle fucking, the final glance and gentle touch…oh).

Sherlock’s eyes open wide in the darkness.

 _John loves me_ , thinks Sherlock, and after this conclusion is reached there is a beat of perfect silence in his head.

In the next moment he is suddenly fighting a sickening wave of fear. He presses his hands together (slight tremble, in time with the flutter of his stomach) and inhales deeply. After another few cleansing breaths, the physical symptoms are fading and he can feel his mind in ascendancy again. A few more breaths and he will be ready to analyse those symptoms; right now they are a mystery and Sherlock cannot stand unsolved mysteries. He reaches for similar instances in his mind, searching for correlations. He felt like this on Dartmoor, he remembers. (Cause? A giant befanged hellhound. His reaction was appropriate). But the Baskerville case involved hallucinogens and therefore his normal responses were skewed. When else has he felt like this? 

_“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”_ The words float to the surface of Sherlock’s mind and even after all this time he grimaces at the pain of them. He had cursed himself over and over for installing that microphone; he’d berated himself for listening to the recordings; he’d wished with all his being that he could have heard the words when John had said them. Had he done so, he would have run to John, then and there. But that had been impossible. By the time he had discovered what John Watson had to say to his headstone, Sherlock was in the cargo hold of a flight headed to Dubrovnik. For a long, terrible moment, _(One more miracle, Sherlock, for me)_ he had sprung to his feet, scrambling out of the baggage cart that had been his hiding place, and cast about desperately for something to use as a parachute, not caring that he was thirty-thousand feet above the Adriatic sea and there was no way out of a pressurized hold that wouldn’t involve a speedy death. It took Sherlock’s vision blurring completely and his breathing becoming laboured for him to finally crawl back into baggage cart and let out one wracking sob. Something had broken open in Sherlock, and he sobbed as he hadn’t since he was almost too young to remember. His breath was raw in his throat, and his chest convulsed until he was sure he had no breath left. He may have moaned John’s name, but he’s unsure now of whether he did. The tears had stopped quickly, but in their place they left an awful awareness, a water-mark Sherlock has been unable to delete in all the time since. By the time he was on the ground again, he was calmer, set again in his determination to destroy Moriarty’s web and clear his name before he returned, but the knowledge of John’s pain pulled at him like North to a compass needle, in the background, ever present.

He had been so afraid then, curled up and weeping in the baggage cart. It was fear of what he’d inflicted on John, and Sherlock turns his head to see the dim outline of John’s face, angled slightly away, and wonders if this is the same thing. John loves him, and Sherlock cannot love John. And if ever John speaks his love in a way Sherlock can’t ignore, Sherlock must tell him so, and then John would hurt. Something icy squeezes Sherlock’s chest. He doesn’t want to hurt John again. Not that badly. 

(Worst case scenario? John tells his love. Sherlock rejects it. John is hurt. John is sentimental, and cannot bear being around Sherlock, who reminds him of his pain. John leaves Baker Street.) 

Suddenly the rush of fear is back and it’s worse. John can’t leave. John is remarkable, extraordinary, one of a kind and if he walked away Sherlock could never find a replacement. The fear is threatening to turn into blind panic. But emotion is a stain on his pure reason and caring is not an advantage and Sherlock has never loved anyone before and now John loves him and he has no idea what to do.

This isn’t an objection to John, Sherlock clarifies to himself. John is Good. He’s kind, brave, fierce and loyal. He is intelligent (not on Sherlock’s level but thinking of any kind is good, and John’s brain works admirably fast compared to the rest of his acquaintance); he’s patient (no one has stayed with Sherlock for this long, not ever); the frailty of genius may be that it needs an audience, but Sherlock needs only John, these days. If John is with him, everything becomes a little better.

Sherlock’s second deduction of the night crashes unexpectedly into his mind.

 _Oh hell,_ he thinks.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You love me,” says Sherlock quietly.
> 
>  _Bugger_ , thinks John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read this! I'm amazed and thrilled at the reception this fic got, and I <3 you all!
> 
> Dedicated to the marvellous [MirabileLectu](http://mirabilelectu.tumblr.com/).
> 
> This is once again unbeta'd, so please do let me know of any mistakes!

When John wakes up that morning, opening his eyes to a bright day and Sherlock’s hand resting on his chest, he suddenly finds it very difficult to breathe. Sherlock stayed. Sherlock is asleep next to him, that hard, angular face so young in the morning sunlight, his dreaming expression so tender. John is so happy in this moment it’s almost indecent. He can feel his limbs grow light with the feeling and a grin is creeping ever wider on his face. 

He turns away, just in case Sherlock wakes up to the sight of him staring with a mad grin on his face, and stares out at the rain-washed blue sky instead. He hasn’t been this happy since Sherlock came back from the dead. No, that’s not true; when Sherlock reappeared in his surgery he was happy, but it also ripped open the wounds which his grieving had been slowly healing. All the pain, all the terrible confusion and anger had come spilling out of him like a tide, and Sherlock had taken it all. And then when he had finally finished raging enough to look at Sherlock, properly look, he’d seen the man he loved half-wasted away, thin and worn and with an awful, sad resignation in his eyes. He’d taken every word John had screamed at him with no fight, no argument, and when John reached out to him, he flinched. That tiny, reflex movement had almost broken John; it had been enough to brace against a blow, but not to avoid one. Sherlock thought he deserved all of this, had been expecting it, even, and the idea that Sherlock had expected John to hit him constricted John’s throat. And then because he couldn’t choke out the words “I’m sorry,” or “I forgive you,” or even “I am so, so happy to see you alive again,” he had pulled Sherlock to him and held him as if nothing would persuade him to let go ever again. There had been laughter and tears and apologies on both sides, and when Sherlock had told him about the three snipers, John had held him even tighter.

“Don’t you ever leave me like that again,” he’d sniffed into Sherlock’s ear, the pair of them having sagged to their knees, arms still wrapped tight around each other’s shoulders. Sherlock had nodded against his neck, and John felt the weight of all the things he wasn’t saying curled in his chest. A world without Sherlock Holmes was not one in which he had enjoyed living. It had been colourless, grey, the battlefield fading into the background, and John had felt part of himself wither and fade. Baker Street was at once too empty ( _Sherlock had a way of filling up the room, even when he was just lying on the sofa, eyes closed and fingers steepled_ ) and too full memories, regrets and grief ( _here is where we leaned and laughed that first night; here is where you played the violin; here is where I should have kissed you as you lay sulking in your dressing gown; here is where I now sit and stare at your empty chair._ ) Living in the world without Sherlock had been almost unbearable.

John forces himself back to the present, and gazes out at the sky again. That time was over now. Sherlock had come again with the turning of the year, as they days lengthened and the trees blossomed. He had risen from the grave like a tulip from the earth, and he had brought the colour back into John’s life. He looks back, and is surprised to see Sherlock awake. The only things that have moved are Sherlock’s eyelids, and now that penetrating gaze is fixed firmly on John.

“Morning,” smiles John. “I feel like someone in a fairy tale, you know, one of the ones when you have some amazing experience and wake up thinking it was all a dream, and then find something in your bed from the dream-world.” There is a silence, in which Sherlock’s eyes don’t leave his once. _Oh well, it was a long shot that he’d get the reference._

“You love me,” says Sherlock quietly.

 _Bugger_ , thinks John.

Of course he does. That was the first thought in his head when John himself realised it. John remembers the day it happened; he was looking up at Sherlock’s face, flushed after a chase. They were both laughing, both out of breath and thrilling with the sheer pleasure of being alive, and Sherlock had begun his explanation, rattling off deductions and details at a thousand miles an hour. John gazed at him, rapt, and suddenly the words “I love you” popped into his head. The only thing that shocked him then was how true they were.

He does love Sherlock, more than anyone else he’s ever met. He should have worked it out sooner, considering how long the people around them have been assuming they’re a couple. He’s still correcting everyone. It’s partly because he can’t quite apply the word to him and Sherlock; it’s mostly because after all the effort he’s put into making people believe he and Sherlock are just friends, he can’t bring himself to admit that they were right. John’s feelings are obvious after even a second of thought; what is even more obvious is that Sherlock can never know John loves him. Love and Sherlock do not mix, and John dreads to think what might happen if Sherlock ever finds out. 

He has risked saying it, though – those three little words that could change so much. He says it quietly when Sherlock has left the room, with his eyes when Sherlock solves a case, says it so clearly with his mind that sometimes he thinks Sherlock must be able to hear it. And so, with all this love radiating from him, was it any wonder that in a late spring night six weeks ago, when the last of the blossom was falling from the trees and the unusually warm breeze promised summer, the burden of all John’s feelings had finally become too much to bear? He had carried that weight through a year and a half of grief and pain, and ten weeks of uncertainty and joy, so was is really a surprise that when Sherlock had leaned close, his shirt partially unbuttoned, and whispered his name like a prayer, John just hadn’t been able to resist? Sherlock had finally given him the opportunity to say _I love you_ with his lips; he had kissed him so hard, his touch almost harsh, willing the press of his mouth on Sherlock’s and the pull of his fingers through those ridiculous black curls to plead for him, to beg Sherlock to stay forever this time.

But John had been lucky. Sherlock is not fluent in the language of love, and the Morse code of John’s lips and fingers has gone untranslated. Sherlock has never deduced, never suspected, until now. Now Sherlock knows and he is peeking at him over the duvet and there is something in his eyes that looks very much like fear.

 _Fuck, shit, bugger, sod, damn and_ blast.

“I do,” says John, because he must reply and there is little point in trying to hide something from Sherlock. His secret is out and he must weather the consequences. Sherlock’s eyes lower, and he takes his hand from John’s chest. John can feel him retreating into himself. He wants to grab his shoulders and shake him back, but he’s fairly sure that won’t be any help at all. He licks his bottom lip, trying desperately to think of something to say that will keep Sherlock with him, because he knows that if he lets him leave this room, he will have lost him in the only way that matters. Sherlock’s eyes flick to his, and then away again. 

“John...I…” the words die on Sherlock’s lips and John can feel his heart sink. The future stretches away in John’s mind, full of awkward silences and avoided gazes, and so much longing, because John is certain that Sherlock will never let John touch him again. 

Until Sherlock tentatively slips one hand in his, beneath the covers. There is a very faint blush rising in his cheeks, and he is studiously looking anywhere but John’s face. John stutters, and opens his mouth to ask “what?” before shutting it again abruptly. That is not what needs to be said right now. Fortunately, for once John thinks he knows what the right thing is. He props himself up on his elbows.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says, gravely. “I love you.” Sherlock’s eyes, aquamarine in the morning light, are raking his face. Then they open a little wider, and gaze back at John’s.

“You really do,” says Sherlock, and John’s heart almost breaks at the wonder and surprise in his quiet voice. How could his brilliant, beautiful madman have gone the entire span of his life without having someone love him? Then Sherlock smiles, and the wave of disbelieving joy is almost too much for John. The words “I love you” hang in the air of the bedroom, and they are still together, squeezing one another’s hands beneath the sheets and no one is running anywhere. Feeling incredibly, foolishly fond, he grabs Sherlock’s shoulders and rolls him on top of him (which is no mean feat - Sherlock is long and bony and he gangles). John leaves one hand where it fell between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and with the other cups Sherlock’s jaw and pulls him down into a kiss. It’s unhurried, gentle, and John realises that he’s never kissed Sherlock merely for the sake of kissing him. It’s always been a prelude to something else, a part of the foreplay, but never just because. But now he’s taking the time to kiss and nip and taste every area of that beautiful mouth, just because he can. Sherlock gives a sigh, and begins kissing back, one long hand caressing the fine hair at John’s temple, and John realises that no, actually, _this_ is the happiest moment of his life.

Sherlock is kissing him deeper now, and his lips are like daylight, shining into each and every shadow and discovering what’s there. It’s like their first time again; there is that same wonder and reverence at each touch, and John is amazed all over again that something so beautiful, something he wanted so desperately, is actually his and he might get to keep it. John’s heart is beating faster and he slides one hand between their chests, running slowly down the length of Sherlock’s stomach. His fingers have barely brushed pubic hair before a long pale hand grabs his wrist and pins it against the bed.

“No, John,” he says, leaning closer and closer until their noses are touching. “This time you should go first.” Sherlock slicks the palm of his hand with lube, grasps John’s cock and begins to stroke, burying his face in John’s neck and nipping at the sensitive skin; John just lies there. Well, that isn’t completely accurate; his hips push up into Sherlock’s hand, and as that skilled hand strokes, John lets tremors and little gasps escape him. He runs his fingers through that coarse tangle of hair and wonders if he should hold on; the relief and joy are bubbling up inside him and John is sure he is light enough to float away. Sherlock is pumping faster now, and John can feel his own sweat slicking the sheet. He’s close, and he moves his hand to the back of Sherlock’s head, pulling his face towards him so John can whisper “I love you” as he comes.

It takes John a moment to move again; his chest is heaving against Sherlock’s, their foreheads pressed together and for the moment it’s all he needs. Sherlock’s eyes are closed as he pants and John watches his eyelashes flutter. He slides his hands down Sherlock’s flanks, and this time Sherlock does not offer any resistance. John runs his tongue along Sherlock’s jawbone and feels him shudder.

“Lie back, Sherlock,” he murmurs in his ear, and he is obeyed immediately, the detective rolling off him and stretching on the covers. John takes a moment just to look at him, pale against the dark sheets, before slipping his hands between Sherlock’s legs and pushing them apart. He drops his head and kisses the soft skin on Sherlock’s inner thighs, feeling them tense. His lips move slowly upwards, and John can hear the catch in Sherlock’s breath as he brushes them against his erection. He runs his tongue up his Sherlock’s cock and then takes him in his mouth. This won’t last long – Sherlock is half-way there already.

“Ah – John! Y-yes!” and that’s perfect, fantastic, because his voice is hoarse and breathless and needy and that’s exactly how John wants him to sound. Sherlock is beautiful there, his breath shallow and eyes vacant, hands still gripping the sheet, white-knuckled, and John wishes he’d saved an “I love you” for this moment as well.

When Sherlock comes he doesn’t scream but whisper John’s name, drawing out the syllable as he twitches and trembles. 

“John,” says Sherlock in the time later. They are lying next to each other in companionable silence, gazing at the ceiling and holding hands. John finds it strange how quickly that gesture has become something precious between them. There is a catch in Sherlock’s voice that makes him look at the detective, a concerned frown on his face. 

“I don’t know how good I’m going to be,” he says, hesitantly, gesturing with his free hand at the pair of them. “At – you know – this.”

“Don’t think I will be, either,” replies John companionably. “I don’t even know what _this_ is.” 

Sherlock looks abruptly away and John winces. That was the wrong thing to say. And he’d been doing so well.

“Not enough data,” mutters Sherlock, in his shut-up-I’m-deducing voice. “You were straight and I was uninterested. No previous data to draw upon and the required knowledge is probably far too specialist for a reliable source to be found. Popular culture is unreliable at best and in any case extremely unlikely to have any serviceable examples. If only there was some sort of template, a map for this…type of thing.” He turns and looks at John, then, and the expression on his face is unreadable and unnerving.

“There is no map for us, Sherlock,” he says, as calmly as he is able. “I’m a scarred old vet and you’re a terrible excuse for a sociopath. We’ve killed for each other and died for each other and somewhere along the way _this_ happened. There is nothing in our relationship that passes for normal. We’re off the edge of the map – we’re in the blank bit with nothing but sea snakes and _here be monsters_.”

“But we’ll fail!” At last the expression clicks into place. Sherlock is vulnerable, hopeful and terrified all in the same moment. This is Sherlock stripped to the bone. “If I don’t have enough data to guide me then the odds are stacked against this succeeding, and if I don’t succeed the likelihood is that this endeavour will end. And – ”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” says John, interrupting successfully at the third attempt. He has barely been listening. That is, he heard all of Sherlock’s words, but his attention had been caught by the pucker of Sherlock’s eyebrows and the fact that, the more agitated he got, the tighter he gripped John’s hand, as if anchoring himself.

“What I meant was,” he continues. “It’s all _fine_.” He rubs one thumb along the back of Sherlock’s hand. “I don’t know what I’m doing either, but the point is that we’ll be blundering along together.”

“I don’t do well with uncertainty,” whispers Sherlock, and John doesn’t know what more he can say, what more he can give of himself to ease the fear in Sherlock’s eyes and leech the desperation from the grip on his fingers.

“You can be certain of me,” he replies. It’s not enough, not even close, but the frown softens a little and Sherlock turns his shoulders a little further towards John. His face is quizzical.

“I’ll be here,” John says, his joy inflating slowly in his chest. “Here, whenever you want me, or need me. I always have been.” John places his lips reverently on the bridge of that ridiculous nose. “But now, I’ll be there with a kiss, as well as a cup of tea.”

“Whenever?” Sherlock’s smile is in his eyes, if not in his voice, and John can’t help grinning back.

“I promise.” And that’s it, really. There isn’t anything more to say in the morning light, except the normal questions of who wants tea, of what they’ll be doing and whether there will be time for toast. But John can’t resist the casual contact, the brushes of shoulders and brief clasps of fingers that burn with a new fire. And as the day stretches on, John finds himself exchanging glances with Sherlock as they touch, both briefly alight with glee at their secret. Slowly, the realisation dawns on John that he is fine, more than fine. _Everything_ , he thinks, catching Sherlock’s eye as the backs of their hands brush again, _is going to be all right._

At around five o’clock that day, John realises that he probably should have qualified “whenever you need me” to “whenever you need me except when I am carrying two cups of tea, which you will knock out of my hands when you pull me, by the lapels, for a kiss; incidentally, by the time we get around to mopping it up, it will have stained the rug and we’ll need to replace it before Mrs Hudson notices.” However, in this moment Sherlock is kissing him, unashamed and unafraid in the afternoon light, beneath a sky of living blue, and there will be time enough for everything else, later.


End file.
